111: Made by himself? That's absolutely impossible.

Hua Country.

Countless citizens watching the midday news also saw this brief but shocking international breaking news.

"What the f*ck?"

"Are those rich Arabs that fierce?"

"A range of 12,000 kilometers? Fifty missiles? Is that for real?"

"Hiss... now there's going to be a good show in the Middle East."

"I used to think they were just rich, but I never expected them to quietly pull off something so big!"

The whole world was in an uproar.

Eagle Country, White House.

In the Oval Office, the atmosphere was so oppressive it felt like water could drip from it.

President Reagan stared intently at the TV screen, where The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia TV repeatedly broadcasted footage of the missile entering the sea.

His face, usually adorned with a warm smile, was now terrifyingly grim.

Bang!

He slammed his fist onto the heavy oak desk!

"Jackson!"

He turned his head and roared at the attendant by the door.

"Get the CIA Director here, immediately, right now!"

A few minutes later.

CIA Director Jackson, covered in sweat, rushed into the office.

"Mr. President..."

"Shut up!" President Reagan pointed at the TV, every word laced with towering fury.

"Jackson, I need an explanation! A reasonable explanation!"

"Why is it that the Sattar people have intercontinental missiles erected, yet our great Central Intelligence Agency knows nothing about it?!"

"Where are your informants? Where are your satellites? Did you feed your hundreds of billions in annual budget to dogs?!"

Jackson's face was pale, cold sweat dripping down his temples.

"Mr. President... we indeed had a serious intelligence oversight."

"I don't want to hear that!" Reagan roared.

"I want to know where these missiles came from! Did they make them themselves? That's absolutely impossible!"

Jackson hastily handed over an emergency report that had just been printed, his voice trembling.

"Sir, based on our urgent analysis of satellite images and missile flight data... our preliminary judgment is..."

"All characteristics of this missile are highly consistent with Russia's R-36M ballistic missile!"

R-36M!

NATO reporting name: SS-18, "satan"!

Hearing this name, President Reagan's pupils sharply contracted.

The temperature in the office suddenly dropped several degrees.

His anger instantly found a clearer outlet.

"Gorbachev..."

Reagan gritted out the name, his eyes becoming extremely dangerous.

"That damned bastard!"

"He's signing the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty with us, solemnly vowing to reduce nuclear weapons."

"Yet, he's secretly selling strategic weapons of the 'satan' level to madmen in the Middle East!"

"He's treating the whole world like fools!"

Reagan's chest heaved violently. He walked to the window, looking at the lawn outside, clenching his fists until they cracked.

"Jackson."

"Yes, sir."

"Immediately notify the Secretary of State! In my name, issue the strongest possible protest to Russia!"

"Tell them we have evidence of their blatant violation of the agreement by proliferating strategic weapons to non-nuclear states!"

"Demand an immediate explanation from them!"

"Yes, Mr. President!"

Jackson, as if granted a great pardon, turned to leave.

"Wait!" Reagan called out to him.

He turned around, a cold glint in his eyes.

"Have The Pentagon raise our global readiness level by one.".

"I need to let that bear in The Kremlin know."

"He's not the only one who can play games."

The Kremlin.

Gorbachev held a top-secret telegram, just received via red phone, personally sent by the Eagle Country Secretary of State, his face ashen.

"Shameless slander!"

He slammed the telegram onto the table, papers scattering everywhere.

"Has Reagan gone mad? What is in his head?!"

The secretary stood by, too scared to breathe.

He had never seen the General Secretary so furious.

Gorbachev paced back and forth in the office, his chest heaving violently, cursing incessantly.

"Protest? What right do they have to protest?"

"Saying we openly violated the agreement? Proliferating strategic weapons to non-nuclear states?"

"And they have evidence? I'd like to see what kind of bullshit evidence they have!"

He stopped, pointing at the secretary's nose.

"Immediately connect me to Washington! I want to personally ask Reagan what he intends to do! Does he want to start World War III?!"

"Yes, Comrade General Secretary!"

Just as the secretary was about to turn, the phone rang urgently.

It was the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

"Comrade General Secretary, the Eagle Country Ambassador to us is requesting an urgent meeting, and they have sent us a set of photos through diplomatic channels..."

Gorbachev snatched the phone.

"What photos? Tell them to send them over immediately!"

Minutes later, high-definition satellite photos and missile wreckage photos.

Printed out with a whirring sound from the fax machine.

Gorbachev picked up the first photo.

It was a missile lying quietly on a launch pad in the The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia desert, its massive body exuding a sense of oppression.

His brows furrowed.

When he saw the second and third photos, seeing the fragments of wreckage salvaged from the sea.

Bearing obvious Russia industrial style and Russian markings, his breath suddenly hitched.

The air in the office instantly froze.

Gorbachev's face changed from ashen to an unbelievable pallor.

He stared intently at the blurred but still discernible serial number on the photo.

"Yashchev!"

He roared into the phone, his voice distorted by anger and shock.

"Commander of the Strategic Defense Forces! Get him in my office within three minutes! Three minutes!"

General Yashchev, Commander of the Strategic Defense Forces, practically sprinted into the office.

He saw the General Secretary's clouded face and his heart sank.

"Comrade General Secretary!"

Gorbachev said nothing, merely tossing the photos in front of him.

"Look."

Yashchev picked up the photos in confusion, and with just one glance, his pupils violently contracted.

As the Commander of the Strategic Defense Forces, he was intimately familiar with every strategic weapon in his country.

"This is... R-36M?"

His voice was filled with shock and bewilderment.

"Impossible! This is absolutely impossible!"

Gorbachev's icy voice rang out.

"The President of Eagle Country just called me personally, questioning me with this thing."

"Tell me, Comrade Yashchev, are you hiding something from me?"

"When did our 'satan' begin to be exported? Or, is it that someone in your Strategic Defense Forces, behind my back."

"Started doing business with the rich Arabs in the Middle East?"

Every word carried a bone-chilling coldness.

Yashchev's cold sweat instantly broke out.

This accusation was too grave; he simply couldn't bear it!

"Comrade General Secretary! I guarantee it with my party loyalty and my life! This is absolutely impossible!"

He defended himself urgently.

"Every 'satan' missile, from factory to deployment, has the strictest supervision and records!"

"Their serial numbers are unique, all in our archives! It's impossible for any to have leaked out!"

"Then explain to me what's in the photos!" Gorbachev roared, pointing at the photos.

Yashchev picked up the photos, held them under the light for careful examination, and the beads of sweat on his forehead became denser.

"From the appearance, size, and the structure of these remnants... it is indeed our R-36M, no doubt about it."